


Black and Blue (and Red)

by metapod



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, Friendship, Implied Relationships, M/M, Spideypool - Freeform, just a bit of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-22
Updated: 2012-09-22
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metapod/pseuds/metapod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter's apartment is broken into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black and Blue (and Red)

**Author's Note:**

> Written a while back on a bit of a whim, I went through it again recently but there might still be some blips.

The clacking of a laptop's keyboard had been the only noise in Peter's apartment up until the creak of his front door had his brows furrowing and his mind racing. Superhero or not, when the front door to your (and only your) apartment opens inexplicably it's an experience that will, without failure, induce horror-movie-scene-esque images. Anchoring those thoughts straight in, the clamor stopped, and Peter was left with a sudden, eerie silence drifting about his apartment. The pounding of his heart that much louder in the quiet, a thought crossed the young hero's mind. _No way was he about to fight in boxers and a worn Green Day t-shirt._

Suddenly, the sound of someone retching from across the hallway stopped Peter's train of thought, and for a split-second, his heart. Why was that sound so terrifying? Of all the sounds – metal and brick collapsing in on itself, an enemy's war cry, blood-curdling screams for _fucks_ sake – the sound of a presumably drunken stranger vomiting into his toilet was seriously making Peter lose his shit.

The possibility of super-evil-genius Count Blank-ula breaking into Spiderman's apartment at four twenty-seven in the morning to assure themselves place as rightful ruler of the world and all it contained was slowly dwindling, while the possibility of a drunken, homeless, confused, drug-addicted man (those sounds would not come from a female) forcing himself into Peter's home for a comfortable place to up-chuck the last of the night and all it contained was slowly seeming more and more realistic. This was New York City Peter was living in, and sometimes he forgot that, amidst all of the super villain fighting and shooting spider-webs from his goddamned wrists, Weird Shit happened in New York City.

Taking the most silent deep breath he ever had, Peter slipped from his office chair to his bedroom door, simultaneously opening it (thank God it didn't creak) and trying to block the light in his bedroom from slipping too far into the hallway. The light to the bathroom wasn't on, but the door was wide open, and Peter (slowly but surely getting accustomed to the dark) could just make out a figure, hunched back against the side of the bathtub, clinging to the toilet, and making breathy, grunting sounds. If this person was putting on an act, it was a good one, but frankly Peter had the greater advantage in position here: not wedged between a toilet and a tub.

Peter didn't necessarily have a plan, but any of the ones gradually forming in his mind were immediately dashed when the figure made a sharp intake of breath and then–

"Hey Spidey,"

Peter took a second longer than usual to process the information, but once he finally caught up with himself, he shouted a touch too loud for a quarter to five in the morning. Not that it wasn't justified.

"Wade!?" Flicking the light switch on a touch too violently for a rather cheap, old apartment, Peter mentally flinched at the sight before him. It was Wade Wilson, _how embarrassing would it be if it wasn't?_ saluting him, minus more than a few digits, and with a nasty little red flower blooming across his lower chest. That would explain the deep-red liquid hopefully not staining the toilet and/or bathroom floor. "It doesn't seem like you tried all that hard to get it in the bowl," Peter chided.

"So much like a mother," Wade slurred as wistfully as he could manage. "Aside from the whole not giving a shit about their son bleeding out on the bathroom floor – Pete do you even realize how fucked up that is?"

Peter tip-toed across the bathroom, avoiding the blood spilt messily across the floor, to yank the perfectly nice towel from where Wade was clutching it against his stomach, giving the mercenary a few whacks with it for good measure. Leaning over Wade to reach inside the bathtub, Peter turned on the shower head up above with a few clicking sounds and the whine of pipes in need of fixing. Stuffing the towel into a too-small garbage can sitting across from the toilet, Peter spared one glance at his old t-shirt and boxers, and his already slightly bloodied hand, before reaching down to help Wade to his feet.

"Up, up, come on." Peter mumbled quietly, staring down at Wade's feet, slowly planting themselves flat on the ground.

Wade grunted in reply, all of his attentions seemingly focused on either the pain now thoroughly spread across his body, or not slipping on the blood-covered floor tiles.

Peter knew better than to try to get Wade out of his costume, but once Peter had him sitting in the bathtub with water washing off the blood that was gradually decreasing in amount, many thanks to Wade's healing abilities, the younger man stepped back, tugging at his wet shirt a little uncomfortably.

"I'm going to get us some clean clothes, okay?" Peter's voice was level and calm to the point where it was fairly obvious he was trying quite desperately to be level and calm. "There's soap and shampoo, if you need it," he added as an afterthought, gesturing vaguely to the bottles sitting on the bathtub ledge.

Wade nodded, but pulled down his mask to cover his mouth. Thankfully it appeared to be fully intact.

Swiftly leaving the bathroom to his bedroom, Peter opened his closet doors with little flourish. The little metal bits at the top had broken somehow and it was quite a struggle to open – usually he'd try to remember to leave it open but he hadn't yet broken the habit of closing them. That wasn't a terribly huge issue though, as Peter was struggling less with doors and more with what clothing of his would be acceptable for Wade.

Still, he didn't have all the time in the world to pick and choose, so Peter wound up having a bed covered in different pyjamas and comfort-clothing, a carefully balanced and neatly folded pile of clothes for Wade in his hand. He would be upset about having to throw out a towel, a shirt, and his boxers later.

Peter tentatively stepped into the bathroom, finding Wade in the same position as before, back against the end of the tub. The water only carried small swirls and streaks of blood down into the drain at this point. Placing the clothing carefully on the counter and smoothing down his own shirt, Peter turned on his heels to face Wade, pausing for a beat. "Coffee?"

"Wonderful."

"I'll be in the kitchen," Peter took a small breath, thinking for a moment. "Call if you need me."

Before he left, he noted Wade's fingers, back to their normal state and trembling slightly.

Really, when Peter told Wade to call him, he wasn't at all expecting him to. So, leaning back against the counter and watching the coffee machine patiently, Peter jumped a little when he heard a drawn-out, "Spidey!"

Running at full speed to the bathroom door, (pretty fast, considering the rather short distance it was to cover Peter's apartment, and the fact that it was The Amazing Spiderman covering it) Peter immediately regretted not knocking or calling into the bathroom himself when he flung the door open to Wade's back, rigid but clothed.

"Uh," Peter started.

Wade tilted his head back minutely, nothing but a skin canvas covered in random, red markings. "You wouldn't happen to own a blowdryer, would you?"

Noting the wet, red and black fabric being fiddled with in Wade's hands, and the pile of equally wet, red and black fabric sitting beside the bathtub, Peter managed to reply with reasonably little stammering. "In the drawer to the left," Wade didn't respond. Peter moved the door open a little further, moving towards the pile of clothes. "Um, would you like me to–"

"No," Wade's voice had a force to it that shocked both himself and Peter. His head dropped down again, towards the mask in his hands. "No, thank you."

"Alright," Peter nodded repeatedly, eyes glued to Wade even as he exited the room and closed the door carefully.

Hurrying back into the kitchen, Peter forgot about the exchange for a split second as he looked at his microwave's digital clock. "5:46", it blinked at him. He was in the middle of doing the math to see exactly how long it'd been since he'd last slept when the coffee machine clicked and Peter rushed towards it, pouring coffee into both of the mugs he'd set up prior.

Setting Wade's mug on one side of the living room's coffee table, and sitting on the opposite side, legs up and mug cradled rather lovingly in his hands, Peter sipped on his coffee and listened to the sound of the blowdryer being waved back and forth. He held his breath when the blowdrying stopped, and Wade stepped out of the bathroom, masked and carrying a not-totally-sopping-wet ball of black and red, stopping before he entered the living room.

"Anywhere in particular I should put this?" Wade lifted the ball of cloth inquisitively.

"Well," Peter pondered for a moment, scratching at his face and looking up at Wade. "Do you… Still want it?"

And moments like these are when Peter can't help but inwardly sigh – Wade moved his head down and to the side at just that angle, his smile-smirk and the raise of his eyebrows showing just this much and it really did upset him that Wade had to be known as the "Merc with a Mouth", because he was one of those spectacular people that could say everything just by looking at you.

Outwardly, Peter laughed.

"The garbage is just underneath the sink."

"Thank you," Wade sing-songed, turning to the kitchen behind him. Closing his eyes and resting his head in his hand, Peter listened to Wade throwing out his ruined costume, hesitating slightly when he came back into the living room, then sitting down on the couch across from Peter, gingerly lifting his own mug from the coffee table. Opening his eyes again with a quiet sigh, Peter looked at Wade – mask lifted up just enough to reveal his mouth, and mug hovering just in front of it.

"We're going to need to ta–"

"Spideey," Wade whined obnoxiously, brows furrowing beneath his mask. In his sleep-deprived stupor, Peter couldn't help but to laugh, and his smile stuck afterwards. Wade smiled right back, and they must've been smiling for an awfully long time because the next words Wade spoke were, "You need sleep."


End file.
